


Sweeter than Wine

by IndigoDream



Series: What He Is [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ciri's only mentioned + in a memory, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt tries communicating, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Relationship Issues, and it works out!, does Geralt have a monster kink? maybe, he isn't actually really feral in that one but a little bit still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: Geralt tries to work out what kind of god Jaskier is, and he wants to understand him better. He wants so much, but Jaskier seems afraid, and Geralt doesn't know how to fix that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What He Is [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679437
Comments: 20
Kudos: 561





	Sweeter than Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This fic will make little sense without having read the previous instalment of the series "What He Is"! I mean, you can try it, but it's directly set after Older than Life so it would be... difficult I think? However if you do, I applaud you.
> 
> This is part of 2 series: "What He Is" and "The Godly Verse" simply because I have another AU where... well where they are all gods, and it felt wrong to me to separate those two AUs, because they are related definitely. "What He Is" will be posted first, every instalment, and then the second series (so far untitled, have pity it took me like half an hour to come up with "What He Is") will also be in The Godly Verse. 
> 
> I was really blown away by the appreciation of the fandom on my previous fic! Y'all are so lovely! It really motivated me to write this! 
> 
> You can come talk to me on tumblr @saltytransidiot (it's me, I'm the salty trans idiot) where I post about my writing woes for this fandom, and also Shadowhunters, and also just a side content of me just complaining. Hope to see you there!!
> 
> Enjoy the fic!
> 
> Edit: OOPS I HAD FORGOTTEN THE SUMMARY

Geralt had known his bard was peculiar. He was the only one who had never be afraid. He was the only one who kept coming back, time after time, as if nothing Geralt said or did would ever push him away completely. It hadn’t taken long for Geralt to accept that last fact; it had taken longer for him to realize that he did not want to drive his bard away. 

Jaskier is his bard, Jaskier is his friend, but Jaskier is also so much more than that, and Geralt doesn’t know how to say it all. He doesn’t have Jaskier’s way with words. He is good at his job, good at fighting monsters and killing them, but he doesn’t have any of the easy-going characteristics of the bard. Geralt doesn’t even like most people. He doesn’t like how they are always buzzing and moving around, like the most annoying of bees, and he certainly doesn’t like the way they smell of fear and hatred when he walks in. 

Truth be told, Jaskier has changed that since he started accompanying him. Geralt doesn’t know how, but now he doesn’t have trouble obtaining a room at the inns they stop in. People have stopped reeking of terror, and some of them even have the idiocy to be admiring him, their awe rolling off of them in waves that make Geralt want to puke. He doesn’t want their awe; he wants their respect and their cons, that’s all. 

He wants Jaskier, too. That’s a thing he has come to terms with a few years ago, when Ciri was still with them, and she used to nudge Geralt’s elbow as he watched Jaskier perform on nights they stayed in inns. 

“Why aren’t you two together,” she asked, all that had been princely in her voice gone as she had learnt the rougher edge of words, as Jaskier trained her to sound and move more like a commoner. A feat in itself that it had succeeded, since Jaskier had rarely been anything close to common. 

“We are barely friends,” Geralt snapped back to his Child of Destiny, and she had shrugged. 

“Sure. But I know you two like each other more than you’re willing to say.” 

“Don’t talk of things you don’t know,” he growled, and that had stopped the discussion then. 

Now that Geralt is standing on top of Jaskier, biting down his neck and listening to his sweet, careless laughter, he wonders why he didn’t listen to her back then. He could have been enjoying this long ago, but he had denied himself for reasons that don’t matter anymore. Because the man he loves isn’t a man in anyway. He is a god, immortal, and nothing can kill him. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier pants when he is done laughing, and he stops him by running a hand on his jaw. “Are you going to cover my neck with your teeth, marking it all over?” 

Geralt doesn’t answer, simply nips at the skin again. He had thought he was pretty clear in his intention. 

“You ridiculous man,” Jaskier huffs and pushes him away gently. 

There is so much strength underneath it, and Geralt had never noticed but it makes sense now. It’s pleasing, to know that nothing he can do will break his lover. He could try as much as he wants, could bite and scratch and mark him, but nothing would really stick. That’s also something Geralt has been blind to in the last fifty years. The way injuries rolled off Jaskier, the way he never fell to the hits of monsters… The way he had never feared Geralt, even after he had taken his potions. Ciri had been afraid, if so slightly, in the beginning. She had been afraid when they had walked into towns where she could get recognized. But Jaskier… There has never been a moment Geralt has felt Jaskier’s fear. Even just a few minutes ago, when Geralt had been deciding whether he wanted to see if the silver would work on the second try or not, Jaskier had been only… sad. He had smelled less like the flowers and sunny afternoons that were so _him_ and more like the rain hitting the battered forest floor in the autumn. He had been sad. 

“You thought I would leave.” Geralt doesn’t do questions much, so it’s unsurprising when Jaskier’s eyebrow rise.

“Yes,” he admits, so freely, so unafraid of his affection. 

“Because you’re not human.” 

A huff of tender annoyance. “We already covered that, didn’t we? Now, perhaps we could go back to—“ 

“I wouldn’t have killed you, even if you were a monster.” 

Jaskier stops talking then and looks at him, really looks this time. His eyes are two pool of wandering seawater, and the witcher can read the confusion in Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt grunts a bit, moves away from him to stand up and walks away slightly. He needs some distance, needs to rearrange his thoughts to make them audible. He has to force himself to think. 

He immediately misses the feeling of Jaskier’s body underneath his. It had been such a pleasurable feeling. He had thought of it so many times, what the lithe body would feel underneath his palms. He could never have guessed it would feel so… powerful. He had touched Jaskier before, yes, but after what happened in the town, the way Jaskier had looked when he had killed those men… Geralt could feel the godly energy buzzing underneath. Now that he has moved, he can’t anymore. 

“Geralt,” a ruffle of leaves, Jaskier probably leaning up on his elbows to look at him, disheveled still, bite marks all over his neck… the perfect image of decadence, the image Geralt wants so much to go back to. 

“Geralt,” the bard insists, and more ruffling of the leaves means he is getting up. “Are you saying what I thought you are saying, because if you aren’t and I’m misreading, it would be very unfortunate for the both of us, and I would really rather avoid that awkward situation. You know I don’t do well with awkwardness, it’s always so strong in a room that someone needs to fill the tension, and then that someone turns out to be me and I don’t mind doing it but then you—“ 

“Shut up,” Geralt growls, low and trying his best to focus himself on the right words for Jaskier. He can’t do this if the bard keeps talking himself to death. 

“Exactly! See, that’s what you tell me when I start blabbering on because everything’s too tense, and I don’t want that to happen right now so—“ 

“Jaskier!” The witcher interrupts again and turns back to face him. “Stop talking.”

It’s a small blessing that his bard — lover?— listens to him this time. Jaskier is still confused, but he is quiet, and Geralt can think, can say his thoughts in the blessedly quiet clearing. 

“You aren’t a monster,” he glares at Jaskier when he looks like he might be interrupting again, “But if you had been. If you had been… I wouldn’t have killed you.” 

He sighs deeply, tries to think of how to say it so that Jaskier will understand the way he means it, with his whole aching soul. “I couldn’t have killed you. You are… You are my bard. My friend. You are the one person I’ve known I would always be… glad to meet again. You have never been afraid of me. You are… annoying, and loud, and you attract too much attention. You never shut up, and you do things I don’t understand. I don’t get you most of the time.” 

“Probably is gonna help now that you know I’m a god,” Jaskier pipes in, a smile slowly illuminating his face from where he is half hidden in the shadow of the fire behind him. “Sorry, shutting up again from now on.” 

“A fucking god,” Geralt sighs and his hand comes to caress Jaskier’s chin, his heart bare in his movements in a way he would never allow with anyone else but the man in front of him, “A god I love.” 

Jaskier has already guessed that, but the bloom of his smile is still astonishing to Geralt. He doesn’t know how Jaskier is so open, so loving, when he has seen so much already. If he really is a god — Geralt is still trying to wrap his mind around that — then shouldn’t he resent humanity? Shouldn’t he hate them, resent them the way Geralt does? The witcher doesn’t know how Jaskier does it. There is nothing that explains it for Geralt. There is no way that Geralt can crack this mystery open, cut up its pieces to see what it all adds up to the way he can with monsters. Maybe this is why Geralt never really doubted Jaskier’s humanity. Because Jaskier is full of life in a way Geralt isn’t. 

“Can I speak again now?” Jaskier is teasing, walking closer until they are face to face, and his neck is craned back up, so that his mouth brushes against Geralt’s. “Because I certainly think you would be interested in what I have to say for once.” 

Geralt lowers his head slightly, so that the position will be less uncomfortable for his bard, and he lets their lips brush, restraining himself slightly. He would devour him whole right now if he could, but his bard has something to say. Despite all his protests, Geralt is happy to listen to the chatter, most of the time. 

Jaskier must take his quiet hum for an agreement. “Good. I love you, you giant idiot. I have for at least the last thirty years, if not more. You were all up yourself, and then there was Yennefer, and I certainly wasn’t about to get into that mess, but I stayed by your side for a reason. Besides your incredibly amazing body,” he taps Geralt’s chest then, and the witcher can’t help the low chuckle, “there is also something so inherently good about you. You pretend you don’t care, but you do. All the time, I can see it. Those girls at the inn. You congratulated me for helping them, but you would have done so yourself if I hadn’t been there first.” 

Geralt inclines his head slightly. He had noticed only because Jaskier had drawn his attention to the men, but… He probably would have intervened, if Jaskier hadn’t been there. Sometimes, monsters aren’t monsters. Sometimes, monsters are human. Sometimes, monsters aren’t easy to kill the way real ones are. 

“So. Are you going to stop running away, Geralt of Rivia?” Jaskier is teasing again, and his blue eyes shine unnaturally. 

“I don’t run away,” Geralt growls and wraps his arm around Jaskier, his hand moving up to tug on the hair there. He had seen the pleasure that had coursed through his companion when he had done so earlier. 

“You just did though,” Jaskier breathes out, and their mouths are too close, too close to not be sealed together, so Geralt corrects that. 

Kissing Jaskier is fire and ice both coursing through his veins. It’s enchanting and lulling, pulling at his soul like it wants to devour him. There is something underneath the mask Jaskier wears, something Geralt glimpsed at during the fight. He wonders how much it would take for Jaskier to show him again. 

“You taste like blood,” is all he growls out when they separate. It’s true enough. There is blood splattered across Jaskier’s face, something he has only realized now, when his own blood has settled back languidly in his veins. There is blood on his hands too, mixed with dirt and dust, and there is the faint smell of the sunny days that Geralt associates with Jaskier. All of it is an intoxicating mix, and Geralt loves it. Loves _him_. 

“I wonder why,” Jaskier rolls his eyes and then turns back to the fire. “The gods be blessed for whichever of them made fire a thing.” 

“You breathed fire, earlier.” Geralt grabs his cape and drapes it over Jaskier’s shoulder as they both sit nearer to the fire. “What else can you do?” 

“What, and reveal all my secrets at once?” Jaskier scoffs and pats his knee lightly. “You keep on hoping, witcher. You’re stuck with me now, so better keep some mystery going or you’ll get bored in a year.” 

“Won’t get bored of you,” Geralt grunts, and ignores the sunny smile he gets from Jaskier in exchange. “You never fail to drag us into some trouble.” 

“You do the finding trouble part pretty easily on your own,” Jaskier puts his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “You don’t need me for that.” 

Geralt grunts, doesn’t say anything more. He feels Jaskier being lulled to sleep gently, not moving from his position against him. It would be more comfortable for them both if they got to their cots, if they got under some blankets, as thin as they maybe, but Geralt is reluctant to disturb the god sleeping against him. He feels… trusted. Loved, even. It’s not a feeling he is accustomed to, but it’s a feeling he can grow into. He lets Jaskier sleep like that, against his shoulder. It feels right. 

Three days later, they reach another town, and Jaskier is back to being his normal bard self. It’s strange. Geralt knows that the iron will he saw, the clacking teeth that could have broken through bones and flesh without any resistance, are still there. But Jaskier sings, and the skies are still dark, but the inn they are in feels brighter. It’s details he hadn’t noticed before, but Jaskier’s voice tends to do that, most of the time. When he sings, people listen, people feel engaged. He doesn’t know whether it’s a good thing or not. He remembers the way he had spoken to that man as he had crushed his hand, that almost tender whisper as he forced the man to not react to the abuse his body was enduring.

“You’re very silent tonight Geralt,” Jaskier says as he sits opposite him, grinning with the few coins he gathered. How mundane, for a god to care about this sort of things. “Though, about as much as usual. Something’s bothering you though. What is it?” 

How does Jaskier knows him so well? Is it his godly nature? Is that what allows him to peer into Geralt’s mind and pulls at the threads of his thoughts? Doubtful. So far, Jaskier has only shown inhuman strength, that enchanting trick, and the fire breathing. And he doesn’t like the implications that Jaskier can peer into his mind at will. He trusts Jaskier not to do that, anyway. 

“Just thinking,” he responds with a shrug, drinking his ale. 

“Well isn’t that all very mysterious. Why don’t you tell me what you thought about my performance then?” 

A reassuring out is offered to him and Geralt jumps on the occasion. “You didn’t sing many songs, not enough to pay for more than one night. You should have called to the audience more.” _You’re good at that_ , he doesn’t say, but he hopes Jaskier will hear it anyway. 

Jaskier huffs loudly. “Of course you would say that.” 

They haven’t really touched each other since that first evening. It isn’t anything that pollutes the air between them, and Geralt can tell Jaskier is leaving him the space to move towards him. As if Geralt is the fragile one. As if Geralt should be the frightened one. 

“Only one room tonight,” Geralt says, a bit pointlessly. Jaskier was there when the innkeeper said there was only one room available. 

“I suppose I’ll take the floor,” Jaskier sighs with a pout on his face. An ageless face, Geralt reminds himself, the thought making something like warmth rush through him. He’ll never lose Jaskier to time. 

“No.” Geralt grunts this, looking down at his ale. He isn’t shy, for the gods’ sake. He isn’t embarrassed of what he wants to ask, but he also doesn’t know how to phrase it like a question, rather than a demand. He has never really been in this position before, where he wanted more than to fuck someone, and be out of there as soon as possible. Even Yennefer and what he had felt for her couldn’t compare to what he feels right now for Jaskier. What he has felt for him for years. Fuck. 

“What, you would willingly sleep on the floor rather than wrangle me to have the comfortable bed? Why, Geralt, now I’m really surprised.” 

His bard is poking fun at him, Geralt realizes with a startle. Jaskier knows what he wants to ask, knows what he _wants_. And he has no intention of making it easy on Geralt. 

“No,” Geralt repeats and finishes his meal. “Share my bed.” 

The words come out as an order, and he had tried his hardest for them not to, but he isn’t like Jaskier. He doesn’t talk much, he doesn’t know how to make his words come out sweet and silky. When he wants something, Geralt demands it, and he obtains it. Here, he wants Jaskier to have the choice. Because despite being a god, despite his fearlessness, Jaskier could be pushed away. Jaskier could leave. 

A warm hand, smaller than his own, but battered by travel and time, callused from years of lute-playing, settles on his, hidden from most people’s view. The last time, Jaskier had been provoked by men who had disrespected and insulted him for loving men, and Geralt suspects he wants to avoid that again. Although, the witcher doubts that anyone would want to cause trouble to a witcher, especially the White Wolf. Jaskier made him famous and beloved through his songs, but he also spread the rumours of his strength, of his fighting capacities. 

“Alright,” Jaskier says, and he is quiet for once, something in his tone making him warm. 

They don’t say much more as they eat. They hear the news about a monster having killed three men, and left one speechless man with a crushed hand alive in the next town over, but they don’t perk up. No one comes to ask Geralt to find and kill that specific monster, and if they had, he would have said no. He may need the coin, but he wouldn’t swindle a person out of their money when he knows perfectly what happened to those men. And he can only pray to the gods, Jaskier included, that it won’t happen again. Jaskier said he wouldn’t do it again, but everyone makes promises they can’t keep. It’s not that Geralt thinks Jaskier would do it for pleasure, no. Rather, he knows that, if Jaskier felt endangered, if he felt that Geralt, or even Ciri as she rules as Queen, was threatened, there might be no holding him back anymore. The god would shed all mortal appearance to save the ones he chose to love. And isn’t that a marvellous thing to considerate? 

Geralt has heard the folktales, of mortals loved by gods, being led to their deaths by their lovers, simply because no mortal can handle the full passion and strength of a god. But Geralt doesn’t believe in that. Not with Jaskier. He has seen the way Jaskier talks to people, the way he protects those he thinks he can help, even before his godly reveal. When Ciri had been with them, Jaskier had taught her how to get out of a fight without being noticed, while Geralt had taught her how to hold her ground. It had been Jaskier who had taught her how to haggle and determine the limit of a merchant’s temper. Geralt can even remembers a few times Jaskier had sung the distraught princess to sleep after she had woken up from a nightmare.

Geralt knows he can handle Jaskier’s love, his world-devouring passion that he had glimpsed the night they kissed. But Jaskier doesn’t seem to know Geralt is certain of that. There is a certain carefulness in his movements, something almost uncertain whenever he touches his witcher. And his witcher hates that. 

When he gets up, it’s abrupt. It startles Jaskier, who is only just finishing his meal, and the bard only has the time to grab his lute as Geralt drags him out of the room, to the bedroom that has been set aside for them. He pushes the door open, pushes Jaskier in, and closes it. Actions are so much better than words.

“Not that I don’t appreciate being dragged from my still hot meal,” Jaskier says with a frown, “but what’s gotten into you Geralt? Was there a threat? Did someone threaten me or you? You know I can handle myself fine. I told you I wouldn’t unleash the beast inside on them again. But no one thinks it’s you anyway!” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, grabs Jaskier closer, and kisses him harshly. He tastes like ale, like the meal they just had, and like this intoxicating Jaskier scent that drives Geralt nearly insane whenever he can smell it. He wants Jaskier so much it almost hurts to think about. 

“Fifty years,” Geralt growls as Jaskier looks at him, stunned by the abrupt kiss, “Fifty years we have been traveling together and you still don’t know when to shut up.” 

“I like to think it’s part of my charm,” blue eyes meet his own golden ones with an impish light, “And I think you agree.” 

“You will not break me,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier shuts up then, realizing what this is all about. “I’m a witcher—“ 

“I’m fully aware of that, I literally write songs about that—“ 

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt grunts again and pushes Jaskier to the bed in the room, makes him sit down on it. “I can handle you. All of you.” 

Jaskier remains silent then, sitting on the bed and looking away from him. Geralt hates that, hates that Jaskier is tentative, not afraid but cautious. The Jaskier he knows, the Jaskier he _loves_ , is daring, and doesn’t stop to think before throwing himself in dangerous situations. The Jaskier he saw three nights ago was exactly like that: brave and angry. The bright edge of a blade that had been sharpened until it’s finest point. Geralt, he is aware, is blunt force, unbalanced grace. Fighting to him is his nature, it’s who he is. Jaskier, even with what he did, is not born a fighter. He honed those skills, until they became sharper than a witcher’s. There is anger in Jaskier’s fighting, and desperation so raw that he choked up Geralt when he was nearby. And Jaskier doesn’t even notice. Because his bard is a god, and gods are apparently worse than witcher at emotions. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Geralt says, tilting Jaskier’s head up, taking in those blue eyes. “And you are not afraid of me.” 

“No,” Jaskier shakes his head with a slight smile. “I don’t need to fear you.” 

“Then why do you act like you’re afraid of me!” Geralt’s growl is loud, rumbling through his chest, his frustration building up. 

Jaskier sighs, pulls at Geralt. It’s effortless to him, but Geralt can feel the strength of the pull that has him landing over his lover. He could have resisted with all his might, could have been under one of his potions, he would still have fallen. It’s not mind control, it’s just pure, raw strength, hidden underneath the build of his bard. Jaskier isn’t lithe, he isn’t thin and starving, and Geralt had always known he had some strength. But this amount? This godly amount, that could pull down mountains? It’s more than he could ever had imagined. He loves it. 

“I’m afraid of myself,” Jaskier finally whispers. “I know I wouldn’t break you. I know I wouldn’t harm you, but you saw me. I’m a god. We are made for a solitary life, and I am a god without a home. I am a god left behind, abandoned by his people. I am a god made of thousands of human lives, and I am a god made of steel. You are a witcher. Your body is human, your heart is human, and your soul too. If I so desired, I could steal heart and soul for you, make you a god’s pet.” 

“But you won’t,” Geralt says, quietly too. His voice is barely above a whisper, so quiet in the room that he can hear the sounds of the inn underneath, the loud laughters and plates being cleaned. “You won’t.” 

Geralt doesn’t believe in much. He barely believes in the gods, and he has one lying down in his bed. But faith leaks out of him like water out of a faulty bucket; there is nothing that could stop him from believing in Jaskier. Not because Jaskier is a god, not because he has said he wouldn’t hurt Geralt. No. Geralt believes in Jaskier because he _knows_ him. Knows him beyond the godly, beyond the beast inside. Jaskier might not be human, but he is more humane than most men Geralt has encountered. Jaskier loves with all his body, with his voice and eyes and hands, and he hates the same way. The bard is loud, so loud that he fills the angry thoughts inside of Geralt with thoughts of petty fights between bards, of squabbles with lords, of songs that beg for love. 

Jaskier looks at him, really looks at him, and there is something stirring underneath, Geralt can see it. The god underneath is waking up, because the blue is unnatural in a quarter of a second, and suddenly Geralt is the one on his back, Jaskier above him. His hands are tying Geralt’s above his head, and the pressure is almost crushing him. Jaskier opens his mouth, and teeth long and sharp, _like a monster’s_ , Geralt’s mind supplies, peeks through the fine lips of the bard. 

“Am I supposed to be afraid?” Geralt asks flatly. 

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, just lowers his head, until their mouths are so close Geralt can feel them brushing together. Jaskier is hesitating in this form, afraid of hurting him, so Geralt is the one who surges up and traps their lips together. He doesn’t struggle against Jaskier’s hold on him, knows it’s futile, but he kisses his bard harshly. The hands holding his wrists down loosen and Geralt moves his arms, grabbing Jaskier and forcing him to come closer, until their bodies are pressed together. 

Jaskier’s sharp teeth disappear as the kiss continues, and Geralt almost misses them. There had been something almost satisfying at feeling the edges of it as he sneaked his tongue past them, making Jaskier shiver underneath him as he holds him firmly in place. He retreats, bites Jaskier’s lips as he does so, and the blue eyes that are staring back at him have still an unnatural edge, but they are still mostly his Jaskier. 

“Do you need more proof?” 

Jaskier shakes his head, a faint smile on his lips. “I wouldn’t say no to more convincing, but you are pretty clear when you want to.” 

His knee nudges at Geralt’s erection, a wry grin on him now, and Geralt doesn’t feel any shame. “I want you. Whatever you is, I want it. I don’t care whether you’re human, monster, god, or whatever else is out there. You’re Jaskier. I trust you, and I want you.” 

Jaskier’s grin turns into a sunny smile, and here is Geralt’s bard, the one who sings at court for audiences who rarely care, who gets cheered on by folks in inns, who looked at the Lion Cub of Cintra and decided he would sing her lullabies, despite her being 13. The god he is doesn’t change that, but Geralt can see the fear in his eyes still, so he kisses him again, and again, and again, until they are both breathless and aching. 

“I want you too, my witcher,” Jaskier says, his hands wandering underneath Geralt’s shirt. His nails are sharper than they were a second before they disappeared underneath the clothing. Geralt likes the little pain that comes with it, the way Jaskier finds pleasure in slowly running his fingers across his chest. 

“Good,” Geralt says and then disposes of any clothes they are both wearing. His patience is running thin, and he has been yearning to touch his bard for too long. Now that he can, now that the other man is willing to relent him control, he intends to take advantage of it.

When Jaskier cries out in bliss, Geralt’s hand is wrapped around him, and he buries his hand in the white hair of his witcher. The sound is unlike any Jaskier has ever made, loud and shatteringly clear. A god’s voice, to match a god’s pleasure. 

Afterwards, when they are both sated and Geralt has allowed Jaskier to rest his head on his chest, when calm reigns within both of their chests, Geralt clears his throat slightly. He isn’t used to be the first one talking, not when he is with Jaskier who is always blabbering on and on. But now, he wants to ask a question, and he isn’t sure he should. Not after Jaskier’s answer the first night, when he had tried something similar. 

“What’s your true form like?” Geralt caresses Jaskier’s hair, feels him stiffening under his palm. Shit. 

“No,” Jaskier answers a question Geralt carefully didn’t ask. “You don’t want to know.” 

“I do,” Geralt presses, trying not to be too much still. He wants to keep this thing between them, their _love_ as long as he is allowed. “I told you, I’m not afraid.” 

“It would kill you,” Jaskier whispers, face hidden in Geralt’s torso. “It kills humans.” 

“I’m not exactly a normal human.” 

“Human enough,” Jaskier huffs and moves away. “Can’t you be content with what I’ve shown you so far?” 

“It’s not about being content,” Geralt moves too, drags Jaskier back against him, bites at his shoulder slightly. “It’s about you. You’ve seen me, all of me. Yet you deny me that very same thing.” 

“To protect you.” It’s so unlike Jaskier to be so short, and so unlike Geralt to be so talkative in comparison, that he almost considers giving up. It would be easy to let the matter rest. Geralt would simply have to say a word, and they would be back to lying down in bed together, content in the other’s company.

“I told you, I don’t need to be protected. Not from you,” Geralt bites the bard’s neck again, appreciates the shiver that runs through his lover. “I can take whatever you give me, and I want you in every way or form, Jaskier. Nothing about you can scare me. I watched you crush a man’s throat, for fuck’s sake! Do you really think I can be frightened off by your true nature?” 

Jaskier stays silent, contemplating what Geralt said, and then he wraps himself back against his lover. He lets Geralt run his finger through his hair, and sighs deeply after a few moments. 

“I’m not that different. As a god, I mean. Shiny eyes, big teeth… It’s more.. I’m less… I’m less a person each time I take my god’s form. There were times when I stayed like that, isolated, to protect myself from humanity’s greedy hands. And each time I did that, I lost a part of the humanity I had grown inside myself. Sure, I can always learn it again but… I can remember the last time, how I stood on shaky legs, over the body of a torn apart deer, eating the flesh raw. And I can remember not feeling anything. An everlasting emptiness. That’s what I am like, when I take my true form as a god.”

Jaskier is all emotions and boundless love. Geralt has troubles imagining him as an emotionless being, monster-like but immortal, and unkillable. Geralt relishes in the times he uses his potions sometimes, when his mind is clear from all the cloud of emotions, but Jaskier… The witcher simply presses a kiss to the forehead of his lover. 

“Alright.” He answers quietly, and the evening stretches on for them like this. 

Geralt knows his bard was peculiar. He might be a god, but he is so deeply human that it hurts him, over and over again, and Geralt’s heart strain at the idea of that. He will protect Jaskier, until his last breath is stolen from him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the fic! I would be happy to talk about it either here or on my tumblr (@saltytransidiot) where I might even talk about the next instalment of this series... 👀 I'll also be posting soon a playlist I'm compiling for the larger series Godly Verse so come check that out!


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